Graves by Bob Hoeppner

Most graves are already dead but
they don’t act like it, their erect
stones poised to impregnate
the eye with names and dates
until every pathetic fallacy scrubs
the data beyond the rubbings
like to a genie’s lamp, meant to invoke
the person from the container. But
no genie comes. No
wishes are granted after the grave
has died. But when it was
alive with mourners, with ants
feasting on crumbs of grief,
one wish was granted, in the wish
that they were still alive and
in that wish they were.